Quotes About Isolation

Your eye will no longer linger on the light, it will no longer trace constellations. You'll care only about the darkness and you'll watch it for hours, for days, maybe even for years, trying in vain to believe you're some kind of indispensable, universe-appointed sentinel, as if just by looking you could actually keep it all at bay.

You wouldn't believe how much harder it's getting for me to just leave my studio. It's really sad. In fact these days the only thing that gets me outside is when I say: Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck you. Fuck me. Fuck this. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

I was twelve miles from no where.

missing the most obvious fact of all that what I hoped to lock out I've only locked in here with me.

And no, it hasn't gone away. The elusive it is still here with me. But there's very little I can do.

Luckily they haven't heard me or if they have they've sense enough to ignore me. I wish I could ignore me.

For at least a week, I was hung over with no sense of what lay ahead, plenty of untraceable guilt and a mounting sense of despair.

Kept for that moment when I'm certain nothing's left.

Lude would never feel how 'empty hallways long past midnight' could slice inside of you, though I'm not so sure he wasn't sliced up just the same. Not seeing the rip doesn't mean you automatically get to keep clear of the Hey-I'm-Bleeding part.

I couldn't feel anything either, shock alone possessing me, depriving me of any emotional meaning.

Slowly but surely, I grew more and more disoriented, increasingly more detached from the world, something sad and awful straining around the edges of my mouth, surfacing in my eyes. I stopped going out at night. I stopped going out. Nothing could distract me. I felt like I was losing control. Something terrible was going to happen. Eventually something terrible did happen.

I stopped going out. Nothing could distract me. I felt like I was losing control. Something terrible was going to happen. Eventually something terrible did happen.

Of course during all this, the children are once again abandoned, left to look after each other, with no one around to help translate the horror of the afternoon.

Unfortunately, humans lack the sophisticated neural hardware present in bats and whales. The blind must rely on the feeble light of fingertips and the painful shape of a cracked shin. Echolocation comes down to the crude assessment of simple sound modulations, whether in the dull reply of a tapping cane or the low, eerie flutter in one simple word--perhaps your word--flung down empty hallways long past midnight.

Something's really off. I'm off. I can't do a fucking thing.

Quite a few people have slept and suffered within those walls.

And my heart started hurting because I couldn't share her happiness.

His eyes remain fixed on a horizon that is both empty and meaningless.

Tom drifting into an unremarkable and for the most part internal existence.

In many ways, Navidson's house functions like an immense isolation tank. Deprived of light, change in temperature and any sense of time, the individual begins to create his own sensory [ ], [ ]d depen[ ]ng on the duration of his stay begins to project more and more of [ ] personality on those bare walls and vacant []allways.

I'm alone. That just figures. Ghosts always go first for the one who's alone. In fact, I bet they're here right now. Lurking.

This is ridiculous. I don't belong here. No one belongs here.

with very little to remind them of themselves or their past or even their tomorrows . . .

I suppose I could call her . . . but for some reason these days dialing seven let alone eleven numbers feels like an infinite stretch. The phone's right in front of me but it's out of reach. When it rings at four AM I don't answer it. All I have to do is extend my hand but I can't run that far. Sleep never really arrives. Not even rest. There's no satisfaction anymore.